"Doorway"
We set off on a pact of our own
invention. I bounced off the blue
winter doorways of your eyes.
We agreed we would not be coming back.
We would fly through cloud, land
feet first among broken spiral shells.
Driving past pastures where cattle
munched golden seed, I told you
about fields of rape and white crosses
that marked fallen soldiers. Caliban lay
hidden in the lines of your face. Sometimes,
his glittering eyes appeared those nights
you held a gun under my breast
and we played games of treason.
ii
The last songbirds on earth carried us
down ancient roads and we followed signs
no one had seen but us, in a language
we didn't understand. You conjured me for your own
good purpose. I spoke to you in tongues,
gibberish that only made sense
when you picked apart the heart beats.
The book I had written was closed,
I had scribbled more than enough. Lost words
scattered out the window of the car. You parked
and walked a half mile back, snatching
bits of letters with grubby fingers.
You watched as I sat on the edge of the road
and cried. I begged you to leave me alone, to let me finish
reading the only journal I had brought. I concentrated
on tearing apart pages and letting words fly off.
You said we had to get going, we'd miss our train.
We were almost there, we'd have to hurry.
You said the summer doorways of my eyes were snapping
shut. I promised I would not be long.
© 2005 Laurie Byro
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